If he were her, he’d have paused then, on the chance that he might get a glimpse of anyone following. So he didn’t race after. Instead, he chose a sedate path along the inside curve of the street, maintaining the wall’s cover for as long as possible. He paused to listen at the most extreme point of the arc–one of the drawbacks of New Amazonian architecture was the lack of useful reflective surfaces at street level–and mused briefly that eyes on the back of his head were all very nice, but he really wished that one of the tricks his wardrobe could perform was generating a periscope. For the space of three heartbeats, he listened, but heard nothing, not even the patter of a woman’s boots and a khir’s paws.
And then voices, softly, but too low for him to make anything useful of, given the echoes off tight walls. With careful steps, he rounded the corner. Lesa was not in sight, but the street ended in a T‑intersection, and a pedestrian was moving toward him on hurried steps, her eyes fixed on the street as if she needed to pay close attention to where she was putting her feet. She walked steadily, though–no trace of staggering.
It was reassuring to encounter other traffic. He nodded deferentially as she passed, even stepping aside to provide her a comfortable margin, but she paid him no notice. He continued on, allowing himself to hurry now, and paused before entering the intersection.
Another patch of ground where a couple of nice, big, street‑level windows would come in very handy. Kusanagi‑Jones frowned and stared at his feet. “House,” he murmured, “which way did Miss Pretoria go?”
He was not answered, not even by a flicker of color absorbed from the deepening sky overhead.
He licensed a hand mirror and used it to check both ends of the cross street, crouching so when he extended it, his arm lay parallel to and near the ground. There was movement to the east, but the mirror was too small to reveal more.
His fisheye, however, showed him that the pedestrian was safely out of sight. He released the mirror and touched his wrist, keying the wardrobe back into camouflage mode. Then he stepped forward.
Lesa Pretoria was there. Back against a wall, her hands spread wide but not raised, exactly, so much as hovering, and Walter beside her, balanced on his hind legs like a miniature kangaroo, with his forelegs drawn under his chest and the feathers on his long, heavy tail fanned wide. They were surrounded by five armed women, and a man Michelangelo knew from the reception the first night: Stefan, a light‑complected fellow with unusually fair hair, more so even than Vincent’s.
The man had his back to the alley and his bulk hid part of the scene. Beyond him, what Kusanagi‑Jones had taken to be two attackers was revealed as an attacker and a hostage with her arm twisted behind her back, her own confiscated weapon by her ear.
The hostage was Katya Pretoria. Which explained Lesa’s careful, motionless poise.
Vincent would have known the instant he saw the bystander hurrying away. He would have read it in her gait, the guilty downcast of her eyes, the haste.
Kusanagi‑Jones wouldhave to walk in on a mugging blind.
Or maybe not a mugging. Having Katya as a hostage–miserable, trying with pride not to flinch away from the muzzle of her own weapon–would tend to indicate that something more complex was occurring. Lesa had made casual comment about people kidnapped by pirates, after all, and not in a sense that indicated she was, entirely, joking. And there was the incident with Vincent–
As Kusanagi‑Jones moved, he obtained a more complete perspective. The stranger was holding the weapon cocked beside Katya’s head. Not actually in contact, but close enough to make the point in a professional manner.
Lesa’s weapon was still holstered, but the other women were all armed, and only one of them hadn’t drawn. Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t take her for the ringleader, though. More likely a scout.
A poorly trained scout. She repeatedly glanced over her shoulder at the confrontation, rather than facing the approach, weapon ready.
Actually, her right hand was bandaged and splinted, and though her weapon was rigged for left‑hand use, he thought that hand flexed awkwardly over the holster.
Sometimes you got a lucky break.
Well,Michelangelo thought, at least I’m invisible.
For now. He thought he could rely on the New Amazonians to figure things out once he acted. And while his wardrobe couldstop bullets, it couldn’t do it forever. It cost in power and in foglets, and the technology needed time to recharge and repair.
He wasn’t without assets, though. She might be female, but Lesa was deadly enough with a sidearm to win Vincent’s respect, as Vincent had impressed on him after the discussion in Lesa’s office. Katya was another factor. Duelist or not, Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t think she was the sort to just stand there and weep. And, of course, the khir. Kusanagi‑Jones could only guess from old media how useful it might be in a fight, but he knew police and military had used dogs as attack animals before Assessment, and the khir was bigger than any image of a dog he’d seen.
He hoped they hadn’t overstated the case.
If Lesa was the…gunslinger…Vincent had intimated, she’d initiate something when she saw an opening. Which meant Kusanagi‑Jones needed to giveher that opening, while being alert for any moves she might make on her own, and standing ready to abort and follow her lead. He just hoped she didn’t do anything hysterical, or freeze up because of the gun to her daughter’s head.
He was getting blasted tired of trying to second‑guess people smarter than he was. And it wasn’t made any easier when they were women.
If this was the same crew that had attempted to abduct Vincent–as the lousy perimeter guard’s bandaged hand tended to indicate–they might be armed chiefly with nonlethal weapons. They would want everyone alive.
Which would be why the woman controlling Katya was using Katya’s weapon. Because itwould be loaded with lethal rounds, and Lesa would know that. If one meant to threaten, it never hurt to reinforce your intention with a little evidence.
If one meant to act, however, sometimes the element of total surprise came in handy.
Kusanagi‑Jones moved forward. The wardrobe’s camouflage function was designed to bypass automated security. Mere human senses never stood a chance as he picked his route between the attackers. The target was of average height, for a New Amazonian. Her dark brown hair was cropped short and brushed forward into a coxcomb, dyed cherry‑red at the tips. She held Katya’s weapon with confidence, and her voice carried.
“Please place your hands on your head, Miss Pretoria, and turn to face the wall.”
Lesa seemed to be obeying, slowly and with deliberation. Her hands rose, her eyes unswerving on the gunwoman’s face. Walter’s leash still slid looped around her left wrist, and the khir hissed as she turned, its nostrils flaring. Michelangelo wondered how long it could balance on its hind legs–it showed no signs of strain yet–and he wondered also why the cherry‑haired woman didn’t just drop it. Whatever need kept them from harming Lesa, he couldn’t imagine it applied to her pet.
That was, he hoped, secondary. He found a position behind the gunwoman before Lesa finished her hesitation‑march pirouette. His moment would come when Lesa’s back was fully turned. The target’s attention should shift, momentarily, from controlling Lesa and Katya to ordering her troops.
That would be the moment when Katya would be at the least risk from his intervention. And he saw it coming in the shifting of the target’s weight, the instant when she drew a deeper breath, preparatory to speaking.